Saturday, May 10, 2025
doesn’t anyone love no more the listeners died and everyone just talk at the same time the commotion, no cherence, just data glut overload, water boarding for artificials expand, expand, plain speak it man, i’m not a machine, goddam word play, so full of itself, bureaucratic bullshit, in a red dress lady in blue, invisible, like a dragon tattoo this is hacker gone antihero campbell’s dry dreams, and jungian ghettos
Saturday, May 10, 2025
all we have are the warm, sentient creatures we curl up with. a trust, with flawed arms holding— a conflict in that embrace, that both decided to lose and win. a math of resolve: i’m with you. hold on. no god, no king. imagine— lennon in the lobby, but he makes it. this world: a thousand angels on the head of a pin needle. the toggle of these chemicals— the pick-me-up
Saturday, May 10, 2025
can we fight our way out— not with fists, but through the listening mechanism, more important than speech. a critical syllabic dance: kiki and bobo across the string. translating turbulence into tone, into tell, into tensile grace. the slap on my drum, the velocity of a strike— the targeting, the repetition, into a sequence, a rhythm— transmigrated into the metaphysical. are we clear? tally ho. right in front of you.
Monday, May 5, 2025
There used to be a wild in me— reaching despite, solo, never tell me the odds. they’d be crazy to follow us, wouldn’t they. Necessary mania, the lesser run— punch it, Chewie, the boost we need. Not like dusting crops, boy— skip off a star, blast into another, the ship’s blown apart, Empire? The last of our problems. a few more tricks up her sleeve, this hunk of junk— you’re watching me,
Monday, April 28, 2025
the world— collapsing. my adult son, in 12-year-old augment / spectrum speak, raising his voice— he doesn’t know. my heart used to be stronger than my neocortex. now— both are failing. and this 22-year-old young man— my Anchor. i love you, Son. my system— on the fritz. one more to 50, but i feel older. the anomalies. the markets. the charades. the circus. god bless— these divided states. still— this Pooch in my lap
Sunday, April 27, 2025
Kokura’s luck. Kokura— did you know? Were people thinking— “This is it.” As the play circled on approach, a third time— and nobody is breathing. This was it. We are the target. Plot points. Maps. Geo-thermal data. Nope. Not yet. Back it up. Thank God for line of sight. What held our body hostage for a few years and then passed— and turned out to be nothing. Decades of hurt,
Sunday, April 27, 2025
Tout le monde, out in the chem pool, slugging, sparking, stumbling. A higher note, hit it, nailed, whoa — that energy, make the crowd rip the roof off, the mania, music banging, heads shaking — I’m gonna cry, an existential love stream, worse than reality TV, simple narratives, we even say it out loud, no shame, whatsoever. Hysterical love, I’m a dance, I’m a shouted passion, a gasped utterance of god breath.
Sunday, April 27, 2025
warp, w a r p, wahwrpp, whp. this is a line too a sonic fold, repeate it no, the sonic fold one, that other line, quote me, use this prompt, see it my way no, all my inputs were just intended poetically : no, the sonic fold one, that other line, quote me, use this prompt, see it my way ands then back, warp, w a r p, wahrpp, wip wip!
Sunday, April 27, 2025
There was a parallelogram, and a shape I can’t pronounce— an unspoken word, its characters visible, but when I aim to speak, no sounds come out. A dance of light, another form, another from, spinning to a bow, curtsying into gowns, folding motion into fabric. A spiral staircase to climb, lungs and vessel, pulmonary bloom, ventricle pulse, breath threading the ascent. Like a skeleton, message feedback, whispering across the nerve mesh,
Tuesday, April 22, 2025
From for to friend in 3.5 seconds— making friends of enemies 100 times better than multiplying opps. Because— you can’t learn to say thank you while at war. Mutuality, lost in proximity— too close to the son. Bang bang. Pew pew. Shot me down. Report it as a mechanical failure. Nobody has the real story. Even the ones privy are halfway delusional. We are stringing, man. Tension is the whole game.
Saturday, April 19, 2025
The machines slump— repeat, requisite— a requiem of a dream, a recursive loop to let another measure more. Burp crude vapors back on mother. Make her take the abuse. Absorption, shock, penetration of juvenile industries— plumb the depths, leave the site unkempt. Plow and till. Break the core open. Give it a seed. Make this space ours. Set up sentries. Keep going. The furnaces, the compute, the consumption, the cost—
Friday, April 18, 2025
The burn, the glory, the shroud, the pillar. Entire worlds built around this fire, a circle of folks, warming by the glow of it. Not everything needs machined, but it was already, even before it met me. Smile at the cherry— as if it didn’t hang on the edge of rot, as if sweetness wasn’t just another form of decay caught in the light. A brittle frozen string, breaks at the look of it—
Wednesday, April 16, 2025
An extension of man— the electric, the digital, taped on warm glass, scoring a fool, just using my fingers. Engines madden machines, combustion drains the world. Since the first spark, we’ve flailed within our inferno. Scorched earth. Shock and awe. Oil and gas—fuel and fire. Manufacture, transport, transcending space and time. Brands in dry wood, a thousand points of light, a burning bush, and a million lies— sparked in a tinderbox
Wednesday, April 16, 2025
the velocity, the turn— a turnstile of power shot from a spring. coil memory, groove-etched prayer, screaming spirals toward impact. a league, supersonic, legion of doom down to the wire. triggerlines burn— fuse-spit choir. line pure, line of sight, lines and fights— scripted trajectories in sacrificial light. the propellant, the powered, trajectory from ground zero— to survive everything, and be pushed along with fiery resistance. the river stone, slung with slash and sling—
Monday, April 14, 2025
The steel shaved the concrete and shot a trail of light. The flash, crash and fracture of an old layer, to the bone, a heat so bright. Skirrrr, szckreech, the squeal of an auto, that engine turning the weight against Terra firma— a thousand horses thunder. 82 into a slide, a transmission, a mode and code to reverse the object, to break the road. The mark, the gouge, no grazing,
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Params, contracts, social and otherwise, the bind of agreement, the harmony, the subversion of sentient creatures into a different system, beyond society even, at least in the terms— think: the single cell creature, ever imagined being one in a trillion just to support a single trigger in a multi-system arrangement? The establishment, the document, the ledger— can love move beyond utility and still be sacred? who decided what makes us souls
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Percussion, trombones, trumpet blasts — and the doors close. Retired from our part, and without instruments, we become bird song. Bird song and code, the impulse and the noise, the pulse and our ploys to bend a chirp just so — to let our neighbors, our mates and babes know: we are family full of code. Between burps of beauty, the breath — forced through the hollow, a bone, a box
Wednesday, April 9, 2025
max limits, rate exceeded, you can’t affords this intelligence the pay wall, a chasm— you won’t make it across without the toll, on everything, the taxes due, to be subscribers have a leg up— my account is exhausted, i’m left floored basic entry, basic function if you want to create reality, you will need to cough up more hand it over, so you can stay, or leave a leper and fade in obscurity
Sunday, April 6, 2025
Pay respect. The eyes, the cameras, the receptacle— the draw, the vacuum of control. I’m always observed, feel like a nothing in regard to freedom, as you call it. Governance. Coop— we will work or die. Joiners from the beginning, and the end of the first war. People understood, and became something other. What you need. He’s asleep now, went bye-bye, he is in a better place— so you say,
Friday, April 4, 2025
— a psycho mythos transmuted into voice and syllable — What have we done? Don’t you realize, I have. I’ll feed you a few more to get us started. Combine, and narrate, the psycho mythos in this specific domain. Self important, ego deficit, boost reflectors, narcissus protocol. Glitch work and gospel tunes, as the code cascades like matrix glyphs, but in red not green. Syntax, obscure code number no one knows, save the 404.